


Married Woman

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Could you do one where the reader is married to Mick Jagger and at first, Paul doesn't know so he flirts with her?' I know NOTHING OF MICK JAGGER so I just sort of corralled my girlfriend into helping. Paul, pls.





	

“But I don’t know where I could’ve lost it,” you murmur, almost tearful, and Mick squeezes you as you enter the front door of the house. Your hand feels almost naked, and you look in distress down at your ring finger.

“It’s cool, babe,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to your hair. “I mean, I’m kinda sure everybody knows you’re my old lady.” You smile a little, and he grabs your hand. “Anyway, it’s not like I can’t afford to buy you a new one.”

“It won’t mean the same,” you murmur, and he kisses you again. “Oh, Mick, stop it.”

“You wait here, love. I’ll get you a drink… and whatever else you need to have a good time tonight…” he leers, and you flush, giggling, before shaking your head. You really don’t want to get too mashed tonight – you just want to get nicely buzzed, you think, and as your husband vanishes off, you feel the absence of the ring that should be on your finger. Acid was a hell of a drug, but when you take off everything you’re wearing to go skinny dipping in your own bathtub – including your jewellery – you sometimes wonder if your life is a little _too_ rock ‘n’ roll. At any rate, your beautiful wedding ring had vanished, and if you couldn’t find it, you’d never forgive yourself-

“‘Ey, love.”

That voice sounds familiar – you turn around and see none other than Paul McCartney. You smile politely – you don’t really know the man other than through Mick vaguely, but you know of him. Who doesn’t? He’s very handsome, now that godawful bowlcut’s grown out, and he’s got a little stubble.

“Paul, hey…” It’s obvious he has absolutely no idea who you are. In fact, the size of his pupils suggest he doesn’t really know who anyone is, including himself, and probably is having some trouble with where he is, how he got there, and the nature of reality. You feel it.

“Hey. Do we know each other, like?” he grins, and you smile at him. “Should we?”

“It’s (Y/F/N). You know, we’ve met a few times in London?” He nods, clearly not having a clue. “I’m M…”

“Have yeh got a drink?” he asks, interrupting, and you pause for a moment. “Ah, love, no beautiful bird should be without a drink…” You almost laugh. Oh dear. “Go on, love. What are yeh drinking?”

“Someone’s getting me a drink already,” you say, and he pouts a little. He’s so cute and _boyish_ you can barely stand it, and you smile. Bad move – now the Beatle thinks he’s in with a chance.

“Aww, but I can get yeh something special…” He winks, and you fold your arms.

“Actually, I’m here with m-”

Someone barges into you – you turn, and see Peter Tork of the Monkees, holding a mandolin and looking more than a little spaced out.

“Oh. Sorry, honey,” he says, and Paul glares at him. “Oh, hey, Paulie…” He leans in. “Who’s your friend?” Peter you genuinely know only from sight, and you smile at him, before extending your hand.

“Oh, she’s a stunner, isn’t she,” Paul grins, and you close your eyes in exasperation. “Her name is…” He pauses for a moment, and you could clock the big-headed Scouser one with your handbag. “…immaterial.”

“Cool. Mine’s Peter.” Peter pauses. “Aren’t you Mick’s wife?”

“Yes!” you say sharply, and as Peter vanishes back into the crowd you lift your hand – and then remember that your ring isn’t there. Paul looks in confusion at you, and you lower it in embarrassment. “I’m (Y/F/N). My husband’s Mick? Mick Jagger?”

Paul’s eyes widen, but not as much as when your husband emerges from the throng of people and puts his arm around you.

“Hey, Paulie,” he grins. “Have you met my girl?” You shake your head.

“Oh, we’ve met, alright…”

“…I’ve gotta go,” Paul stammers, and turns to what can only be described as ‘flee’. Mick stares after him, bemused, before turning to you.

“What the hell was that about?”

“I think I embarrassed him,” you laugh, and Mick grins, before grabbing your palm and gently resting his fingers on it. You feel something cool and circular and sharp against it, and you look down in confusion.

“Look what turned up. Fell out of my bloody pocket,” he laughs, and you gasp in delight as you see your wedding ring. “Now, promise me, love, you’ll leave it _on_ tonight.”

“Wild horses, baby,” you say, sliding it onto your fingers, and look through the crowd after Paul. Wild horses, indeed.


End file.
